Bad Dreams Read Online Free PDF

being lost in a book.’
    â€˜ More ,’ she insisted. And I remembered all the times I’d seen her sitting lost in a rapturous world of her own.
    â€˜How?’ I asked. ‘I mean, suppose you were holding Tansy at St Clare’s ?’
    â€˜You might dream the midnight feast bit. You’d smell the cakes, and feel a part of the chatter around you.

    â€œâ€˜We’ll do it eeny meeny miny mo,’ said Laura . . .”
    â€˜Or if it was Philippa and the Midnight Pony , you’d feel the cold air on your face, the hooves thudding beneath you, and all the excitement.’

    Then I remembered all the times she’d acted as if she’d practically been bitten.
    â€˜So what if it’s a chiller thriller, or a horror book?’
    â€˜Oh, then it’s awful , like being trapped in a nightmare. You have all these horrible and panicky feelings as you see every ghastly thing about to happen, like a train coming round the bend while the car’s still stuck on the crossing, or the toddler leaning too far out of the top-floor window. But, just like in a bad dream, there’s nothing you can do to help. You just have to stand there, holding your breath, and watching and waiting.’
    â€˜You can’t ever stop it?’
    â€˜No. Because it’s already there, in the words on the page.’
    I thought for a bit. Then I said, ‘You take that book, Clown Colin —’
    She waved her hands frantically in front of her face. ‘No! Don’t! I hate even thinking about when his wooden eyes start spinning round and round. Don’t even talk about it!’

    I tried another one. ‘How about Little Mattie ?’
    â€˜Noo-oo!’ she wailed. ‘That bit where he’s dragged away from his mum – I can’t bear it!’

    â€œ. . . until he couldn’t even see her any more.”
    That is so weird , I thought. And I couldn’t have felt more sorry for her. After all, I read more than my fair share of books that make me keep the light on all night long. And lots of books that make me sad, or anxious, till things work out right. But I don’t end up in a state like her, halfway to fainting because of three or four grisly pages, and not even able to look at the cover of that book ever again without wanting to shudder.
    â€˜A gift’, her mother called it. But, the more Imogen told me about it, the more I thought that that was totally the wrong word.
    â€˜Curse’ was more like it.
    Yes. Not ‘gift’, but ‘curse’.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I had a hundred more questions, but the bell had rung, and when we got back to the classroom, Mr Hooper was in one of his ‘Time-to-start-something-new’ moods.
    â€˜ Compare and Contrast ,’ he announced. And through the long afternoon we tried it with fifty different things: light and dark, noise and silence, misery and happiness, on and on and on.
    â€˜And that’s your homework,’ he told us afterwards. ‘One and a half pages of Compare and Contrast.’
    â€˜Can we do anything?’ I asked him.
    â€˜Anything.’
    â€˜And can it be private?’
    â€˜I suppose so.’
    (For ‘Private’, you put a large red P up in the top corner. Then, even if it’s the best piece of work in the class, he won’t read it out to everyone.)
    I had a plan. As we left class, I said to Imogen, ‘Shall I walk home with you? I’ll come as far as your house, and then cut back through Stannard’s car park.’
    She seemed so pleased, I felt a little guilty. And I felt worse when Mr Hooper, who’d been listening, whispered in my ear, ‘See? Wasn’t I right? Once you get used to it, it’s nice to have company.’
    But even knowing I was using her to do my homework didn’t stop me asking her questions all the way back to her house.
    â€˜Was your mum pleased when she realized you could see into books